


The First Threads of a Network

by Nantai



Series: The Network [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Greg Lestrade, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Case Fic, Christmas, Crime, Divorced Greg Lestrade, M/M, POV Greg Lestrade, Pre-Season/Series 01, murders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-27 13:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19014076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nantai/pseuds/Nantai
Summary: Gregory Lestrade buries his Christmas in paperwork as usual when he get's called into the Chief Superintendents office only to be told to drop his current case by a mesmerising stranger. Of course Greg cheerfully ignores that order.





	The First Threads of a Network

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ReynardinePotter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReynardinePotter/gifts).



> This was a Christmas gift in 2018 on tumblr for my beloved beta reader ReynardinePotter who continues to be incredible and a talented author herself!  
> Enjoy!

**21** **st** **December**

Greg sighed at the mountains of paperwork on his desk. This really got depressing the sixth year down the line. Back before he had been made DI he had at least only himself to blame when he decided to bury Christmas in paperwork. His boss had always insisted that he should take a free day on Christmas and Greg had refused every year. Coming home to an empty, dark flat had been a worse thought than spending the holidays in the station where there were at least a few Christmas lights up and some other people around.

But as DI he had his own office. Which wasn’t decorated. And he didn’t actually see other people. Donovan didn’t work on Christmas on principle. Hopkins and Dimmock both were worse than him.

Maybe he should really take the free day this year.

“Sir, you’re needed in Camden Town, looks like a robbery gone wrong.” A Sergeant had come in without knocking and Greg was very tempted to snap at the young man but ultimately decided against it.

“Alright, address?” Greg asked, pushing himself away from the table and the paperwork.

* * *

**22** **nd** **December**

It was way too early in the morning, 3:22 am to be precise, to be called out of his bed by the Chief Superintendent. But Greg rolled out of his heavenly blankets anyway. Because when the Chief Super wanted to see you in his office at this time you better got going.

Greg started the coffee machine on his way to the bathroom and when he returned marginally more awake he collected a mug of steaming coffee. Carefully sipping it he went back into the bedroom to get dressed. Taking care to make it look like he was an actual professional Greg managed to find a tie that wasn’t crumpled.

Thirty minutes later he was led into the corner office the Chief Superintendent occupied and was surprised to see that they weren’t alone. A man he didn’t recognise sat on one of the chairs at the small conference table on the left side of the room. The man was wearing an expensive black suit with a black tie on a pristine, white oxford. An equally black umbrella was leaning against the table. Greg registered the chestnut hair and the watchful eyes that indicated a time in the Army or something similar.

“Ah, Lestrade, sorry to wake you. I know you were out late yesterday,” Chief Superintendent Villiers said genially.

Greg almost immediately decided that he didn’t like this situation. Superiors that far up were never friendly to you unless they wanted something. “Of course, sir. No problem.”

“Coffee?” Villiers asked, motioning over to the machine on the sideboard.

Greg shook his head. “No, thanks sir. I’d like to know why I’m here.”

“Straight to the point as always, Inspector,” Villiers chuckled and settled down behind his desk. He motioned to the other man in the room.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, we need you to stop investigating the Camden Town murder,” the man said with a sure voice. He was certainly used to his orders being followed.

“Who is we?” Greg asked coldly. He had been right, he didn’t like this one bit.

“That is not of importance here,” the man answered smoothly, a small smile playing around his lips. Greg noticed it didn’t reach his eyes.  

“You’ll have to give me more than that,” Greg shrugged, addressing the Chief Super without turning away from the suit. “Sir, if we stop investigations for every well-dressed guy who comes in here soon no cases will be solved anymore.”

The man had the audacity to smile indulgently at Greg. “If you think your Chief Superintendent will let you continue your investigation because you talk back, Inspector, you are very mistaken.” He stood up, putting on black gloves and taking the umbrella up. “And if it makes you feel any better, my name is Mycroft Holmes and I work for the government.”

With that he left and Greg could only gape at the closing door. A small part of his mind noted the fit of the suit while the rest of Greg was trying to come to terms with the situation at hand.

He swivelled around to face the Chief Super. “Sir, you can’t actually mean this!”

“I’m sorry, Lestrade, my hands are bound. That order came from all the way up,” Villiers shook his head regretfully. “We’re lucky they decided to tell us in person at all.”

**o0o**

Greg was fuming the whole morning to the point where even Sally gave him a wide berth and she was normally the most unfazed by his moods. They were told to surrender all copies of their notes on the case, but Greg cheerfully disobeyed, keeping the copy he’d taken home last night.

He wanted to know why the government was trying to cover this up, what was so special about a robbery turned murder?

By seven o’clock in the evening Greg was so deeply buried in the files that he wasn’t completely sure about the whole up and down, left and right thing - but he knew why the government was trying to cover their arses.

When he came up for air he took a sip from his cold and stale coffee (he dimly remembered Sally bringing it around four) and smiled smugly.

His victory was only marred by the impeccably dressed man sitting on the other side of his desk. H-something from this morning.

“What are you doing here?” Greg asked grumpily, standing up to make himself some more coffee in the kitchen. Realising belatedly that it was stupid to ask a question and immediately leave the room he stopped in the door. “Want some coffee?”

“No, thank you, Inspector,” the man smiled thinly.

Greg shrugged and noticed that government guy was wearing a charcoal suit now, just as finely tailored as the one in the morning. And a blue tie, which brought out his eyes. Greg shook his head at himself. Too many files and too little food did strange things to his mind.

Returning to his office Greg found the man still sitting in the chair. He settled back down behind his desk and swept a look over it to make sure nothing was missing. It didn’t seem so, but on the other hand a good amount of the files had already migrated to the floor and Greg wasn’t quite sure why the file on an attempted robbery in Edinburgh was there at all, it didn’t seem to be connected to anything.

“I’m here to collect everything you still have on the case, since it seems you missed a few things when turning your notes over this morning,” the man, Holden? Homes?, said patiently with a non-descriptive smile.

Greg huffed. “And you only just noticed that now?”

“I was curious what conclusion you would reach, Inspector,” he, Holmes!, answered with something that could be a chuckle. “You were so absorbed, you didn’t seem to notice me at all.”

Greg scratched the stubble on his cheek. “How long have you been here then?”

Holmes made a show to look on his- was that an honest to god pocket watch?! “About an hour, I’d say.”

“Nothing more important to do?” Greg asked, leaning back and stretching his legs out. His knees were starting to hurt like a bitch from sitting that long.

“Nothing my team couldn’t handle,” Holmes said dismissively. “To what conclusion did you come, Inspector?”

Greg watched the man for a moment longer. He seemed truly interested in his answer, which was something. But to be honest Greg wasn’t entirely certain that he could trust Holmes not to vanish him should he admit to figuring out the secret. Greg wouldn’t say that the ploy to replace the Queen’s planned Christmas message with another speech had shocked him, it was unpleasant and definitely dangerous enough. But he didn’t think it was worth killing over. He also thought that the police could have handled it just fine, but who was he to judge that.

“You know what, I’m famished,” Greg said, drinking the last of his coffee. “Why don’t we go to the pub and talk there?”

Holmes raised his eyebrow at Greg. “Are you certain you want to talk about this in public?”

“I’d prefer to have some food in my stomach before I talk,” Greg answered, evading an answer. “So, you coming?”

Holmes huffed. “No, I don’t think so. I do hope you do not plan to continue this investigation any further.” He stood up, all fluid movement and controlled strength and Greg noticed, not for the first time, how well the suit fit him. “Have a good night, Inspector.”

Holmes left the office, his umbrella firmly tucked under his right arm and Greg was again left to stare at the door closing behind the man. He hadn’t even taken the files he had come for!

* * *

**23** **rd** **December**

Greg was twitchy all through the day, always expecting Holmes to make a reappearance asking for the files after all. But he didn’t enter his office to find the man, didn’t look up from lighting his cigarette to see a tall man lean on his umbrella and he didn’t meet Holmes at the crime scene he was called to later in the day.

Still he arrived at the house in Whitechapel only to be informed that it wasn’t his jurisdiction by a brunette tapping away on her phone, never once making eye contact.

“Oh, Inspector, before I forget,” she called just when he opened the door of his car. “He wants to see you at the Artesian at eight o’clock.”

Before Greg could answer that he had already other plans, which was true for once, the woman turned and walked into the house. Huffing Greg sat down in his car and googled the Artesian. He whistled through his teeth when he saw the website and the prices. A change of clothes was in order then.

It was only when he left his car in front of his flat that he realised that he hadn’t even asked who ‘he’ was. He had just assumed it’d be Holmes.

**o0o**

At eight o’clock sharp Greg stepped into the bar and felt out of place nearly immediately. He had at least already expected the atmosphere. But seeing the pictures and standing in the room himself were two very different things.

Greg spotted Holmes at a table near the window and walked over more confidently than he actually felt. Holmes seemed very much at ease and Greg wondered again who the man actually was.

Upon coming closer Greg realised that Holmes was wearing a dark blue suit with grey pinstripes and a matching grey tie today.

“Holmes, you wanted to see me?” Greg asked somewhat gruffly. He had thought his reaction to the man had been a thing brought onto him by too much work and too little sleep, but here he was admiring the man again.

Another one of those thin smiles graced Holmes’ face. “Ah, Inspector, you came.” He motioned for the other chair at the table. “Please sit down, do you want to eat anything?”

“No, thanks,” Greg said with a shake of his head. “I’d prefer not to go broke.”

“Oh, nonsense, I’d of course invite you, Inspector,” Holmes said, smiling again. “After all I asked you to come here. You had plans with your ex-wife?”

Greg narrowed his eyes at Holmes. “I did, actually.”

Before he could say anything else a waiter appeared at the table and asked for their orders while lighting the candle. Holmes ordered food for two and Greg glared at him. He was ignored.

“What do you want Holmes?” he asked as soon as the waiter had left.

Holmes shrugged. “You fascinated me, Inspector,” he replied as if that was all the explanation needed.

“How so?” Greg watched the other man’s hands as he opened the napkin to spread it over his lap. He had graceful, long fingers - they looked like they’d belong to an artist not to a government guy.

“You found the Edinburgh link within an hour, my people needed three,” Holmes explained, his mouth turning slightly down in a frown.

“Your people?” Greg asked with a raised eyebrow. “What do you even do for the government?”

“I’m afraid that is classified,” Holmes said with a slight smile. “But rest assured that I’m not just some pencil pusher.”

They were interrupted once again by the waiter returning and serving them a wine and a beer respectively. He also put a few slices of baguette and a small bowl with olives on the table.

“Why are you interfering with this? We could have dealt with the case easily,” Greg challenged Holmes.

Holmes sighed deeply. “Honestly, I am starting to believe that you actually might have. But we didn’t know that when the murder was first reported.”

“Is the investigation a bit below your pay grade after all, Holmes?” Greg asked with a good-natured smirk.

“It’s starting to look like something my little brother would solve on a free afternoon,” Holmes said with a deep sigh, rubbing his temple with two fingers.

“I guess that means yes,” Greg said with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t mind the work much, if you want to return it to me.”

“Trying to hide from Christmas again, are we, Inspector?” Holmes drawled with a raised eyebrow, the change in demeanour so sudden that Greg was actually thrown.

He shrugged. “I’m not one for celebrating, never have been.”

Holmes tutted. “Please don’t try to lie to me Inspector, it doesn’t become you.”

“I’m not lying,” Greg protested, even though he had to admit that he wasn’t exactly telling the truth. The ‘never’ part of his sentence certainly wasn’t correct.

“Your ex-wife left you on Christmas six years ago,” Holmes said with a disapproving frown. Greg wasn’t too sure what he was disapproving of. “Ever since then you buried yourself in paperwork from the twenty-fourth to the twenty-seventh, only going home to sleep and sometimes not even that. But now you’re trying to patch things up, are you not?”

Greg glared at Holmes. “Stealing my case wasn’t enough for you, was it? What gives you the right to snoop through my life?” He stood up, getting his jacket from the back of his chair. “I came here out of courtesy, not to learn that you apparently don’t understand the meaning of privacy. Good night, Mr Holmes. Good luck with my case.”

Greg left without another backwards glance. He had come in the hopes of finding out more about the case, maybe even about the man himself. He had called Joanne in the last minute, to cancel their dinner. She had not been pleased, the sentence ‘just as always then’ had been used.

Positively burning with anger that Greg couldn’t even explain he returned to the police station, he wouldn’t go home like this.

* * *

**24** **th** **December**

“Boss? Did you spend the night here?”

Greg shot up from the couch in his office and groaned. His head hurt, his neck was complaining about the awkward angle and he felt like he was hungover even though he didn’t have any alcohol the night before.

“Bloody hell, how late is it?” Greg croaked, not answering Donovan’s question.

She shrugged. “Seven, sir. You wrote me to come in early today.”

Greg groaned again and levelled himself off the couch. “I’m gonna go and take a shower, can you be back in half an hour? And bring Hopkins and Dimmock and their Sergeants, this one is big.”

“Alright, boss,” Sally was still watching him with a frown on her face but he shooed her out and grabbed the bag with his change of clothes. Sometimes cases didn’t really allow you to head home to change and it was always good to be prepared.

Once Dimmock and Hopkins had been brought up to date Greg decided it was time to go out and grab breakfast. If he’d accidentally run into the Chief Superintendent who’d be on his way in it could only be a coincidence, right?

The thing Greg hadn’t anticipated was the woman accompanying Villiers. It was the same brunette who had told him that Holmes wanted to see him. She probably was one of his people and now she was talking to Villiers urgently, scanning the crowd all the while.

She spotted him but didn’t react in any way. If Greg had been somebody else he might have assumed that she simply hadn’t recognised him. After all she hadn’t spared him a glance yesterday. But after the kind of information Holmes had dug up about him within a day Greg doubted that any of the man’s staff wouldn’t recognise him.

For a moment Greg pondered whether to follow them and convince the Chief Superintendent to let him investigate after all. He finally decided against it and went to get himself one of those amazing croissants the baker down the street made.

He got two more for Sally and Dimmock, and sandwiches for Hopkins and the two Sergeants. Greg pondered that he really should learn their names when a cultured, male voice behind him ordered in flawless French.

Greg quenched the urge to jump and turned around to face Holmes. He realised then that he’d forgotten the man’s first name, which was somewhat annoying, especially since he had intended to start looking into him as soon as he returned to his desk.

“Inspector,” Holmes said pleasantly. “How fortunate that I meet you here. Merci beaucoup, Michel, à bientôt.”

Greg left the bakery a lot angrier than he entered it. “What is this supposed to be, Holmes? Are you stalking me now?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t discuss this on the street,” Holmes answered tersely. “If you’d drive with me?”

“Absolutely not!” Greg just barely stopped himself from shouting. “As if I’d step foot into the car of a shady government guy who I pissed off.”

“You didn’t ‘piss me off’,” Holmes said with surprise. “You were absolutely right about me invading your privacy, it was very rude and I should not have commented.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have looked at all!” Greg pointed an accusatory finger at Holmes. “How about that?”

“I didn’t have to look,” Holmes replied, the index and middle finger of his right hand rubbing his temple again. “I deduced some of it and Chief Superintendent Villiers told me the rest.”

“You just deduced that I’m trying to patch up things with my wife?” Greg asked disbelievingly. He noticed for the first time that Holmes looked tired. It was subtle, only the redness of his eyes and the somewhat loose tie giving him away.

“Villiers told me about your working habits around Christmas and the reason for it. You didn’t wear your ring when we first met, but you wore it yesterday during the day. When you arrived at the restaurant you didn’t, but you constantly kept reaching for it.” Holmes glared at him. “Ergo, you had plans with your ex-wife and wanted to show her that you still cared by wearing the ring. But then I invited you to join me at the Artesian and you took the ring off. You don’t have a ring shadow anymore, meaning it has been some time since you wore the ring constantly. So, yes, you’re trying to patch up things, but you aren’t actually sure about it.”

All the fight left Greg. Holmes was, irritatingly, right. Greg was too goddamn tired to care about that right now. “Alright. Doesn’t really explain why you didn’t want to talk to me out in the open.”

Holmes looked at him with an unimpressed stare but finally answered. “The matter you’re working on is rather sensitive and I wanted to include you in the investigation as a way to apologise for my rudeness.”

Now it was Greg’s turn to stare at the man. “You wanted to do what?”

“Include you,” Holmes answered patiently. “You’re rather intelligent and very good at your job.”

Greg tried not to feel insulted. He really did. After all Holmes said he was _very_ good at his job, but… “Rather intelligent? How nice of you to say.”

Holmes sighed and his left index finger started tapping on his customary umbrella. “Yes, rather intelligent. You’re certainly above average but…” he trailed off looking down the street. “I told you my little brother could solve this case within an afternoon, maybe even within two hours. If I actually had the time to concentrate on this case and more importantly only on this part of the problem I could solve it in half an hour, maximum. But I have to see the bigger picture, _all_ the consequence coming from this.”

Greg stared at him. “So, you’re some kind of genius. I don’t think that gives you a blanket permission for being rude.”

Holmes looked at him, his blue eyes turning icy. “Do not mistake me actually complimenting your intelligence for being rude, Inspector.”

Greg narrowed his eyes at the man. And then he closed them, pinching the bridge of his nose. If he continued to rile the man up they’d get nowhere. And he had offered to let him join the case. “So, if I wanted to work with you on the case…how’d that work? Would you kidnap me to your super-secret lair?”

Holmes blinked at him and answered reluctantly. “No, you would continue working the case from your side. But we would share information and leads with each other.”

“Alright, then let’s do this,” Greg nodded decisively. “My colleagues are already looking into the Edinburgh robbery and into Becky Stevens. She seems to have some interesting connections in Northern Ireland.”

“They also should look into Ove Mattes, he seems to be connected to the murder in London,” Holmes said quietly. “Thank you, Inspector.”

Greg shrugged. “I would’ve looked into it anyway. I don’t like not solving cases.”

“Understandable,” Holmes smiled his thin smile again, but this time Greg could have sworn it reached his eyes. “I’ll have to get going, state dignitaries are horribly impatient people.”

“Then don’t keep them waiting, Holmes,” Greg said with a laugh. “I wouldn’t want to be the reason they start a war.”

“Oh no, they would just threaten to start building weapons,” Holmes said with an exasperated sigh. “Try not to sleep in the office again, Inspector. Your back will thank you.”

Greg shook his head at the man’s retreating back and returned to the office where Dimmock was already impatiently waiting for his breakfast.

“The Stevens lead was a gold mine, Lestrade,” he said around two bites. “We got her location pinned down and we’re planning to head out to take her in.”

“I got a new tip that she might be connected to one Ove Mattes,” Greg said just as Hopkins entered the room.

“Ove Mattes you said?” she asked sharply, grabbing her sandwich with a nod of thanks. “I’m trying to find the man ever since that explosion at the Tory rally in Greenwich. If those two are working together we better have the bomb squad on speed dial.”

They decided that Greg would stay the station and dig up as much about their suspects as he could and prepare the interrogation for the two of them.

About halfway through the Mattes file Greg realised he had no way of contacting Holmes with new developments.

He tried to remember the first name of the man again, but finally had to shake the thought off so he could continue to concentrate. Half an hour later he got a message from Dimmock that they had Stevens, but that two guys, one of them Mattes, had made a run for it after trying to blow their flat up.

Greg had only just hung up when his mobile phone started ringing. “Lestrade?”

“Inspector, I heard there was an arrest,” Holmes said calmly.

“Yes, we got Stevens, but Mattes and another guy got away,” Greg told him. “They’re bringing her in, we’ll try and find out what she knows.”

“Good, I’ll see whether my team can find those two fugitives,” Holmes sounded pleased. “Do you mind telling me what Stevens has to say?”

“Not at all, we’re working together after all,” Greg said easily. “I guess I can reach you under this number?”

“Quite correct,” Holmes answered. “But I’d prefer a message, I might be in a- meeting for the rest of the day.”

Greg nearly snorted at the obvious pause. “Alright, Holmes, have fun.”

“Good luck with Stevens, Inspector.”

With that he hung up and Greg saved the number. Just as he was clicking ‘save’ he finally remembered the first name. He went back to change the contact name to ‘Mycroft Holmes’. Whoever named his child Mycroft? There were certainly better names out there.

But the longer Greg thought about the name the more he had to admit that it fit the man rather well. Just like his suits.

And he really shouldn’t be thinking about that while there were terrorists to catch.

Huffing Greg went back to his file on Stevens, trying to glean pressure points that he could use during the interrogation. He already had an entire catalogue of questions for the woman.

**o0o**

It was closing in on midnight when Greg’s phone rang with Holmes’ name on the display.

“Yes?”

“Are you still at work, Inspector?”

“Yeah, Stevens is a worrying mix of cooperation and arrogance,” Greg answered, leaning back and rubbing his face with his free hand. “I’m trying to find out what we’re missing.”

Holmes sighed. “We found Mattes and his partner, a man called Matt Looney.”

“Somehow you don’t sound like that’s good news,” Greg said frowning. “What happened?”

“Mattes killed himself on-site and Looney died in custody,” Holmes said heavily. “Nobody knows how.”

“Not suicide?” Greg asked, sitting up in surprise.

“Definitely not,” Holmes replied. “He was murdered, poisoned to be precise. But we have no idea with what poison or when the dose was administered.”

“Those bastards,” Greg said with gusto. “I’m beginning to feel like this is something far bigger than replacing the speech. Especially since someone at the station would notice.”

“I am forced to agree.”

Whatever Holmes was going to say next was interrupted by Sally entering Greg’s office in a rush. “Boss, she’s dead!”

“Who is dead?” Greg asked in alarm, a bad feeling already converging on him.

“Becky Stevens,” Sally confirmed his suspicion. “We put her back into the holding cell and when I went to check on her just now she was dead. But it doesn’t look like suicide!”

“Fuck!” Greg only barely stopped himself from putting his hands on his table with too much force, remembering the phone in his right. “Holmes? You still there?”

“Indeed I am, Inspector,” Holmes answered smoothly. “What happened?”

“Stevens died, like Looney,” Greg said tightly. “I guess forensics will tell us that it was poison soon.”

“I will come over as well,” Holmes said with finality. “Also I want to see your interrogation protocol.”

**o0o**

They met at the entrance to the holding cells. Holmes still wore the same suit he had in the morning, but this time the tie looked more pristine and he was accompanied by the brunette.

“Anthea, Inspector Lestrade, you’ve met,” Holmes said distractedly.

Anthea looked up from her phone for a millisecond and nodded at him, but before he could nod back she was already focused again.

Greg led Holmes and his assistant? bodyguard? secretary? down the hall to the cell that had belonged to Becky Stevens. Holmes took a short look around and nodded to himself.

“Anthea, call Bruce, ask him how many vials of the UDP-1040 are still in his possession,” Holmes said curtly and turned to Greg. “The interrogation room footage?”

Greg was about to ask what Holmes meant, but when he met his eyes Greg saw a steely determination that let him doubt that he’d get an answer. “Right this way.”

He led the two of them into their video surveillance room and had the Sergeant there pull up the footage from the interrogation. Holmes requested it’d be played at quadruple speed. Roughly an hour into the footage he suddenly tensed and asked for a rewind of the last ten minutes this time in normal speed.

They were watching the part were Greg was asking about her relationship with Ove Mattes when a Constable brought her the water she had asked for. Next to Greg Holmes exhaled heavily through his nose.

“Get me that Constable, Inspector,” Holmes said, no, hissed. When Greg didn’t immediately answer Holmes snapped his fingers at Anthea who started working on her phone.

“Police Constable Fred Durham, started at the force three years ago, impeccable service record, no priors,” she recited after a minute and Greg was definitely not afraid of how quickly she got that information.

“Constable Durham is currently in the second floor break-room,” the Sergeant announced quietly and Greg recognised the facial recognition program they were currently beta testing.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Holmes said, striding out of the room without another word.

Greg followed him and Anthea was a step behind, talking to someone on the phone. On the stairs she stepped past Greg and up to her boss.

“Bruce says there are five vials missing,” Anthea said quietly and Greg didn’t miss the tension that grabbed hold of Mycroft’s shoulders.

“Five? But only two people died from poison so far,” Greg stated more than asked.

Holmes nodded curtly, throwing open the door to the second floor. “That we know of. There might be more, either already dead or soon to be.”

“Do you have any idea who the mastermind behind all this is?” Greg asked, easily keeping pace with Holmes’s long strides. He might not be a Constable or Sergeant anymore, but he nevertheless got regular work-out catching bad guys.

“I was hoping to learn that from Looney,” Holmes answered, just as he pushed his way into the break-room.

It was packed with policemen and women and Greg was really getting used to the bad feeling gripping his insides.

“Inspector!” That was Sally’s favourite forensics guy. “Donovan said she couldn’t reach you.”

“What happened?” Greg asked, slowly but surely getting angry at whoever was pulling the strings on this one.

“We were having a Christmas party, you know, just the Constables and a few forensics, and Fred came in late,” Anderson stood up from where he had been examining the body. “Looked real happy and said he made a really good deal at something. Fifteen minutes ago he just dropped, no chance to revive him. Looks like a heart attack.”

Greg looked at the body of Constable Durham. He looked pained, his eyes staring straight ahead, obviously unseeing.

“That wasn’t whatever killed the other two,” Greg remarked quietly to Holmes.

“No, but it most certainly wasn’t a heart attack,” Holmes answered just as quietly, crouching down to take a closer look at Durham’s outstretched right hand. “I know what caused this. It’s a contact poison, specifically engineered to look like a heart attack and it has a delayed on-set. There is no counter for it.”

Greg swallowed heavily. “Anderson, take him down to Forensics. Who’s his boss?”

“That would be DI Dimmock, sir,” one of the surrounding Constables said. “I think he already went home, sir.”

“I doubt it,” Greg said with a mirthless smile. He pulled out his phone and was glad when the other Inspector answered immediately. They were both workaholics.

“What is it this time, Lestrade?” Dimmock asked sounding like he wasn’t fully paying attention.

“One of your constables was killed,” Greg said seriously. “Fred Durham.”

There was a short pause. “Where?”

“Second floor break-room. It’s a long story, I don’t want to tell you over the phone.”

“I’ll be right down.”

Greg closed his phone and turned to Mycroft. “I’m sorry, I’ll have to deal with this. We need to find out where and how our security was breached, and so on and so forth.”

Mycroft nodded, his eyes sweeping the mass of police officers and forensic scientists. “I’ll be in contact tomorrow morning, seems like we both get our Christmas buried in paperwork this year.”

Greg shrugged, surveying the scene as well. “I don’t think I could quite bring myself to celebrate Christmas while this guy is out there.”

“Agreed,” Mycroft said, his eyes settling on Greg again. “Breakfast at the bakery tomorrow at eight? I’ll bring you up to date on what we found till then.”

“Alright,” Greg started moving to the entrance of the room where he saw Dimmock. “I’ll try not to sleep in the office again.”

Mycroft smiled at him for a moment. That was definitely a real smile, wow. It…Not now, Greg.

“I’ll see you in the morning then, Inspector,” Mycroft said politely.

“Greg.” He startled himself with that one, but it was too late. “Please.”

“Mycroft then, Gregory,” Mycroft said with a slight incline of his head and before Greg could protest against him using his full name Mycroft was gone. Only the sound of the umbrella clicking on the floor remained.

Dimmock thankfully didn’t comment and Greg quickly brought him up to speed.

* * *

**25** **th** **December**

Greg rolled out of his own bed at the first ringing of his alarm clock. Seven am was way too early for someone who had gotten to bed only five hours prior. Still, Greg got up, started the coffee machine on his way to the shower and collected the mug on his way back to the bedroom. Same as every morning.

Standing in front of his dresser Greg decided to make an effort today, it _was_ Christmas after all. He pulled out the nice blue shirt and a grey-silver tie. He wore his customary black trousers and jacket, but he really liked the way the tie looked with the shirt and you could wear black with everything, right?

A quick look to his watch told Greg that he had to get going if he wanted be punctual for breakfast with Mycroft. Which he was far more excited about than he should be if the nervous checking of his looks in the reflection of his car and the mirror told him anything.

He wanted to say that he just didn’t want to feel underdressed compared to Mycroft, but even his own subconscious didn’t believe that.

So what if Greg entered the bakery with a little spring to his step? He was just excited to get a nice, still warm croissant to start his day. Really.

When Greg saw Mycroft he greeted him with a smile, which earned him a somewhat bemused smile in response.

“Good morning, Gregory,” Mycroft said calmly. “I see you made it home after all.”

“Yeah, the whole thing ran a bit late,” Greg said, coming to stand in front of the short counter. “But you were right of course, another night on that couch would have been a bad idea.”

“Glad to hear at least someone heeds my advice,” Mycroft said before ordering in French again.

“Show-off,” Greg said with a smile and gave up his own order in English.

They settled down at one of the high tables. “Trouble with your little brother?” Greg asked curiously.

“Sherlock is being unreasonable, again,” Mycroft said, his face souring. “But nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

“Call me, if there is anything I can do to help,” Greg offers with a smile, nodding at the guy who brought them their coffees and their food.

“That is very kind of you, Gregory, but I doubt you can do anything,” Mycroft said with a tight smile. “What you can help me with is put your ear to the ground for a scientist able to synthesise poisons.”

Greg raised an eyebrow at Mycroft. “Is that our guy?”

“Might be, or another underling, who knows,” Mycroft shrugged, taking a careful sip of his coffee. “I do know that the Royal Christmas Message will not be disrupted by terrorists at least.”

The last part was said so quietly that even Greg who was sitting right next to Mycroft had trouble understanding him.

They finished their breakfast in companionable silence and stepped outside into the cold winter morning. Mycroft pulled out his phone and seconds later it started to ring, at the same time as Greg’s phone went off in his pocket. They raised an eyebrow at each other and turned both away to take the calls.

“Chief Superintendent, what can I do for you?” Greg asked cheerfully. This was bad, so bad.

“Get to the Yard, ASAP,” Villiers snapped and hung up immediately.

Turning around Greg saw that all colour had drained from Mycroft’s face.

“I have to go, catch you later?” Greg said more to be polite than because was actually expecting to see the man.

Mycroft nodded and waved, turning to get into his car. Greg shrugged and turned to jog the short way to the Yard. He probably should have expected this after the last few days. Nobody who could get into the Yard unseen and kill an important witness would stop just because the courier who had been supposed to exchange the USB-drives got killed a few days ago.

Bloody hell, when had his life become so complicated? Probably from the moment he had been called out of bed at three in the morning just to meet Mycroft ‘government employee’ Holmes. Greg would eat his own gun if Mycroft wasn’t part of some shady branch of MI5 or MI6, maybe even the GCHQ.

The moment Greg entered the upper level of the Yard he could feel the tension vibrating around the offices.

“Lestrade, this way,” the Chief Super caught him outside the elevator. “Straighten that tie of yours, these are the high-ups.”

Greg rolled his eyes behind the man’s back. As if he hadn’t realised that already. He straightened his tie nevertheless and patted down his wind-swept hair a bit.

“Ladies, Gentlemen, this is DI Lestrade, he is the lead in this case,” Villiers introduced him shortly. “He has been working with Mr Holmes to try and track down the people behind this.”

Greg took in the people at the conference table and wondered what the hell he had gotten himself into when he not only recognised both the Commissioner and the Deputy Commissioner, the official head of the Secret Intelligence Service and a man that could only be from the Security Service. A moment later the door opened again and Mycroft strode into the room.

The change from the Mycroft he had been having breakfast with only half an hour ago to this man was…incredible. He exuded power and superiority, his smile reminded Greg of a shark and his eyes were sharp and cold.

This was the Mr Holmes he had met at four o’clock in the Chief Superintendent’s office. This was the man who seemed to know everything about everyone.

“Mr Holmes, we were waiting for you,” the, possibly, MI5 man drawled, his voice cold and a barely concealed sneer on his face.

“Of course you were, Mr Shanks,” Mr Holmes replied with a friendly smile. Greg couldn’t take his eyes of him.

“Why is the Inspector here?” the head of MI6 asked, her eyebrow raised ever so slightly.

“Because he was the only one able to talk to one of these people for an extended amount of time,” Mycroft said, his smile never faltering.

Greg too suddenly questioned why he was here. He was just a DI, these people ate guys like him for breakfast! Only his long trained mask of indifference saved his arse from showing them too obviously how out of place he felt.

“Who are these people? What do they want?” The Commissioner was playing with her pen in a gesture that conveyed something closer to panic than nervousness.

“Ma’am, I’m afraid Ms Stevens wasn’t very cooperative,” Greg answered, hoping that the question really had been for him. “Especially once she got the water which she seemed to know was poisoned. She kept us interrogating her by dropping hints at possible answers, but she never outright said anything.”

“So you learned nothing,” Mr Shanks sneered, leaning back. “I told you, Holmes, we should have taken this investigation.”

“And I disagreed, I still do,” Mr Holmes said calmly. “Inspector, what do you think she was hinting at?”

“They weren’t working alone, they were led by someone who told them where to find the video. When I mentioned Edinburgh she looked, well, she looked downright panicked for a moment. I will look into that as soon as I get back to my desk.” Greg looked over at Holmes who nodded his head subtly. “I think Edinburgh was a test run, just not their own. I think whoever told them where to find the data they wanted sent them there, telling them it’d be what they wanted, but it was something else. Because Edinburgh doesn’t fit in. They wanted to replace the Queen’s Christmas Message with one that would have riled the masses up and could have caused serious trouble in the short- and mid-term. Why would they break into the flat of a disgraced scientist and don’t steal anything? But then two of them were killed by a poison that isn’t commonly known, and the police man who delivered it to Stevens died from another very uncommon poison.”

Holmes took over. “We finally found out who delivered Looney’s poison. We thought at first that he administered it himself, but after last night’s incident I highly doubted that. So I started looking into it and found out that one of our employees hadn’t come to work today. I sent a team to his home. He is dead, died of a sudden heart attack shortly after arriving home, like Constable Fred Durham.”

“So you’re saying there is a mastermind?” the head of MI6 asked sceptically. “That sounds rather outlandish.”

“I’ve had more and more intelligence suggesting that someone is, basically, sponsoring crime. Either with money or with knowledge,” Holmes said calmly. “This is just one more case.”

“What do you think, Mr Shanks? Have you heard of anything like this?” the Commissioner asked, sounding uncertain.

“No, nothing at all,” the man said confidently. “I think the GCHQ is trying to send us on a wild goose chase.”

“Don’t be stupid, Shanks,” Mycroft sneered, his composure breaking for the first time. “This is not something without prove anymore. Somebody supplied this cell with information and when they got caught they took them out.”

“So? That could be anyone,” Shanks argued. “The Taliban, Al-Qa’ida, another terrorist group, maybe even Russia…!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Safe for Russia, these people wouldn’t agree to let them send any message that doesn’t come from them and mentions their involvement. And Russia would be a lot more subtle.”

Greg was suddenly possessed by a death wish. “You do realise that changing the Queen’s speech won’t help anyone but anarchists, right? I read the transcript of the other video. It’s undeniably a call for more crime, for financial instability. But not, and that is the important part, for different politics. They don’t want to change our involvement in Afghanistan, they don’t want to change our stance on immigration or our relationship to the EU. They simply wanted chaos.”

“And you’re saying that other countries don’t want to weaken the UK for their own advantage?” the head of MI6 was looking at him with sceptical interest.

“I don’t doubt that, but they tend to use other methods,” Greg argued, throwing any kind of self-preservation right out of the window. “They would leak incriminating or embarrassing facts about the intelligence sector or the government. They’d try to keep resources from us to weaken our economic sector. They’d commit acts of terror in the UK and abroad. But they wouldn’t replace the Queen’s Christmas Message that has too little chance of one: working, and second: actually changing anything.”

Madam MI6 was nodding thoughtfully. “The Inspector has a good point. So you think it is an individual, who just wants to cause chaos?”

“It’d be my first guess,” Greg shrugged, somewhat uncomfortable with the scrutiny of so many powerful people. “Next step is finding proof.”

“Thank you for your insight,” Shanks said, sneering a little bit less. “Now, this council has more important things to talk about.”

Greg nearly rolled his eyes at the man and if Madam MI6’s face was any indicator he wasn’t the only one.

“Oh, Inspector,” she called him back. “My card, if you ever want a career change. We could use people like you.” She winked at him and Greg just nodded dumbly and took the card.

With a mumbled goodbye he took his leave and went back downstairs to his office where he sat for a good ten minutes trying to find out on what kind of drugs Mycroft had given him that he just did that. And it had to be Mycroft because nobody else had had access to his food and motive.

Greg was still staring dumbly at the card in his hand when Sally came in. “Sir? What happened?”

“I’ve no bloody idea, but I think I just got a recruitment offer from the Secret Intelligence Service,” Greg answered dazedly and didn’t even react when Sally snatched the card. Why was she even here? She didn’t work on Christmas.

She snorted. “Only you, boss. You gonna accept?”

Greg startled out of his stupor at that question. “Hell no. I’m very happy hunting murderers in London. I’m too old to become a double-oh.”

Sally laughed. “Alright, if you say so, boss.”

“But I’d really like to know why they were meeting at all,” Greg thought out loud. “I was never told.”

“Maybe it was just a debriefing?” Sally suggested, putting the card down on Greg’s desk.

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. They seemed too nervous for that. Hell, the Commissioner was outright panicked.”

Sally whistled quietly. “So, what’s our job now?”

“I want to know more about the Edinburgh case,” Greg said, sitting up and grabbing his usual coffee mug. “Something about that robbery isn’t adding up.”

“I thought it was just a test run for them,” Sally asked, frowning. She followed him to the small kitchenette. “I mean, they said nothing was stolen.”

“But we can’t say for sure that no files were copied or photographed,” Greg reminded her, leaning against the kitchen counter while he waited for the coffee to run through.

“What makes you say that?” Sally asked, hunting through the fridge for something edible.

“Because the poison used on Matt Looney and Becky Stevens was extremely rare,” Greg told her, filling his mug with the black brew of the gods.

“And Constable Durham?” Sally asked hesitantly.

“Less rare, but still not exactly common,” Greg answered. “We have to talk to the man who lives in the flat.”

“You think they stole the formula and somebody synthesised it,” Sally stated, nodding her head in thought. “That means there is someone else behind all this.”

“Exactly,” Greg nodded at her. “Now, hunt me down a telephone number for the guy. Wait, why are you even here today?”

Sally shrugged. “With that big a case? I’d feel bad not being here, helping.”

Greg nodded, stepped into his office and froze. Mycroft Holmes was leaning casually against his desk, his umbrella discarded on the chair together with his suit jacket.

If Greg had thought that Mycroft looked good before he had no actual words for how good he looked now. The waistcoat was hugging his upper body and emphasised the trim waist.

“Gregory, I’m glad to see you’re still alive,” Mycroft said with a small smile. “You looked rather shell-shocked when you left.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Greg said with more nonchalance than he felt, settling down behind his desk. “Can I ask you something?”

Mycroft motioned for him to continue while he sat down on the chair that wasn’t occupied by his umbrella and jacket. “Of course.”

“What happened? Something changed, if the meeting was any indication,” Greg said calmly, steepling his fingers in front of his face.

Mycroft sighed, his index and middle finger rubbing his temple in something that Greg started to recognise as a tell. “I thought you’d pick that up.” He looked at Greg with a strange expression on his face. “I guess you already impressed the heads of MI5 and 6. This is technically extremely classified, Gregory. It cannot, under any circumstances, leave this room.”

Greg nodded calmly, swallowing at the confirmation of his impression on the heads of the intelligence sector.

“The person who is responsible for the broadcasting of the Royal Christmas Message was found dead this morning,” Mycroft explained quietly, leaning forward in his seat. “He was tortured. We are rather certain that he gave them what they wanted.”

Greg leaned back in his chair, his hand flying to his mouth. “Bloody, damn hell.”

“Exactly,” Mycroft smiled sardonically. “All access codes were changed immediately of course. We can only hope that it was fast enough.”

“Did someone check the Message?” Greg asked, his voice weaker than he’d like.

Mycroft nodded. “It seems to be in order. Nevertheless the breach of security is worrying.”

Greg took a sip of coffee and relished the bitter taste. Just what his nerves needed right now. “What can we do to help?”

“The Commissioner already put the Counter Terrorism Command on it,” Mycroft told him. “I know that you’re itching to help, Gregory, but this isn’t what you were trained for.”

“I know, I know,” Greg grouched. “Doesn’t make me happy though.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Nobody expected you to be happy.”

They were silent for a few minutes, Greg drinking his coffee and Mycroft watching him.

“So my team is supposed to stop investigating?” Greg asked unhappily. It really shouldn’t bother him. It was far over their heads, but it was _his_ case, somehow.

“Yes, CTC will send someone down to get your research and they might want somebody of your team to brief them on what you have,” Mycroft nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “You did very good work, Gregory. I can tell you that the amount of people to have been personally invited to join the MI6 by its’ head can be counted on two hands with fingers left over.”

Greg felt his eyebrows crawl up his forehead. “You mean by the current head, right?”

Mycroft looked at him with some pity. “If I meant that I would have said it, Gregory.”

“Fuck,” Greg whispered, his breath knocked out of him.

Mycroft shrugged. “Take it as a compliment.”

“Are you on that list?” Greg asked weakly.

“Yes, but I declined, she sometimes still teases me about it,” Mycroft told him with one of his real smiles.

Greg snorted. “Alright, I hope she doesn’t expect me to accept.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Very few people can say to have the phone number of the head of MI6.”

“I don’t even know her name,” Greg argued.

“Just call her M then,” Mycroft said, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “I think she actually likes the name.”

Greg laughed, the absurdity of the moment catching up with him. “I’ll have to tell Sally that she can head home after all, I’ll brief the CTC myself.”

“Good choice,” Mycroft nodded, getting to his feet and pulling on his jacket again. “Will you head home too?”

Greg looked at Mycroft sharply, somewhat annoyed. “I have paperwork to go through. And someone has to be on call.”

“Of course, Gregory,” Mycroft said, with a placating smile. “I meant no offense.”

Deflating a bit Greg nodded. “Sorry, I guess I’m a bit high strung.”

Mycroft excused himself and left, Greg following him out to tell Sally that she could go home, be with her family.

After briefing the CTC and going over questions with them Greg decided to take his coffee break in the breakroom on third floor. The one on the second floor was still marked as a crime scene. Greg forced his thoughts away from that.

The telly in the breakroom was turned on and a DI from Organised Crime switched to the BBC just a few minutes shy of three o’clock. Greg was studiously not watching the program. He was inexplicably nervous about the Message even though Mycroft had said everything seemed to be in order.

Greg openly admitted that he was a mistrustful bastard when it came to criminals who managed to murder in the Yard without being noticed.

Three o’clock on the dot the Royal Christmas Message started and Greg gave up any pretence of not watching. He listened closely, analysed every word. But nothing seemed off.

No strange calls for action, no coded messages, not even a hitch in the Queen’s breath.

With the last words of the Queen Greg stood up and returned to his desk, where he continued to stare into the void for a long while. All the nervous energy had left him at once and now he felt strangely numb.

Greg was pulled out of his head by the ringing of his phone. “Lestrade?”

“Gregory, did you watch the Royal Message?” Mycroft asked, his voice sounding ever so slightly smug.

“I did, went off without a hitch, didn’t it?” Greg said, leaning back in his chair.

“Indeed,” Mycroft sounded like he was smiling. “What would you think about celebratory dinner?”

Greg swallowed. Reminded himself to breathe. That Mycroft was most likely _not_ interested in him. That this was a work thing. “Yeah, sure, but maybe not so fancy this time.”

Mycroft laughed. “Understood. When will you get off?”

“I signed up for the shift till eight, will that work?” Greg asked, very much hoping that it would. When did he become so invested?

“That works perfectly,” Mycroft said, sounding pleased. “My driver will pick you up at New Scotland Yard then?”

Greg considered his clothes. He had showered and changed this morning. He hadn’t had much exercise today, so it was probably fine if he didn’t head home first. “Yeah, sure. Will you tell me where you plan to take me?”

“Since I myself don’t know yet, I really can’t,” Mycroft replied with a huff. “But rest assured that it will be a better choice than last time.” He was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry for that by the way, I didn’t consider how much the setting would put you on edge.”

“Why do I feel like I should get that framed?” Greg asked, but continued before Mycroft could answer. “And…thank you, for apologising.”

“Of course, Gregory,” Mycroft said with little hesitation. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Bye,” Greg said, putting his phone back on his desk. The end of year paperwork wouldn’t fill itself so he got started on that.

At half past five Greg’s desk phone went off. Double homicide in Richmond. Greg waited till the receiver was firmly back in place before he quietly cursed up a blue streak.

Unless this was a really easy one he’d be busy _at least_ till ten pm, most likely longer. Getting the preliminary report on the crime scene and the bodies, questioning witnesses, hunting down the family…

Greg pushed himself out of his chair, it wouldn’t go faster just because he was complaining. When Greg grabbed his phone he wondered whether he should just call Mycroft to cancel their dinner. But a very small part of Greg, most likely the same one that noticed Mycroft’s body in the first place, let him hesitate. What if he really was done by eight? Mycroft certainly was a busy man, he shouldn’t clog up his schedule if he wasn’t certain he’d make it. But…Joanne had never taken it well when he cancelled one of their meals because of work.

Greg scoffed at his thoughts. Mycroft was so different from Joanne that he might as well be another species entirely.

Sighing, Greg scrolled through his contacts to find Mycroft’s number. At the last moment he remembered to text in case Mycroft was in a meeting.

[ **Greg 17:38** : Caught a case, might not make it in time for dinner. Reschedule? Greg]

He put his phone into his pocket and took the elevator down to the parking garage. Greg had just sat down and closed his car door when his phone beeped.

[ **Mycroft Holmes 17:46** : I’ll call you later. Good luck with the case Gregory. MH]

Greg bit his lip before scolding himself for being stupid. Mycroft had no reason to be angry with him. If what Greg had observed so far told him one thing it was that Mycroft was even worse a workaholic than Greg. Calling a meeting at four in the morning? And he hadn’t looked like he had slept at all when they met for breakfast today.

Putting the car into gear Greg put these thoughts out of his mind, determined to focus on the case.

When Greg stumbled into his flat at ten fifty-three in the evening he really didn’t want his phone to ring. Mycroft hadn’t called him so far. The longer the silence went on, the more Greg convinced himself that Mycroft really was angry at him.

“Yeah?” Greg mumbled into his phone, answering without looking at the caller id. Which was probably not the best idea, considering his last case.

“Apologies Gregory, you sound very tired,” Mycroft actually sounded contrite.

“Why’re you calling?” Greg dropped his keys on his kitchen counter, opening his freezer to see if he had something edible.

“I was wondering whether I could come by,” Mycroft said casually, but Greg had a feeling it wasn’t entirely genuine. “But I don’t want to keep you from your bed.”

“Would you bring food?” Greg asked, trying to yawn away from the phone. It had been a long fucking few days.

Mycroft sounded bemused when he answered. “If you want me to. What would you like?”

“Pizza’d be nice, mozzarella,” Greg said, removing his gun holster and putting it into its safe. “If that’s alright with you.”

“Of course, Gregory,” Mycroft said smoothly. “Do try to stay awake. I would hate to have to break in.”

Greg snorted. “Yes, Mister Super-secret Agent Man.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Greg sat down on the couch and leaned his head back, closing his eyes for a moment, just a moment.

The doorbell startled him awake, but at least Greg felt a bit more refreshed. He heaved himself of the couch and went to open the door. Mycroft came up the stairs, holding two pizza cartons and a bottle of wine.

“Evening, Mycroft,” Greg said, stepping to the side to let Mycroft enter his home. The man had changed into another suit. This one black again, but the shirt was blue and the tie grey. Perfect really.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” Mycroft said, setting the pizza down on the kitchen counter.

Greg went to hunt down his two wine glasses. “I prefer not falling asleep sitting up and fully dressed. The pizza smells heavenly.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Greg. “You didn’t eat since this morning, did you?”

Greg shrugged, he felt his cheeks getting warm. “I grabbed a bite after briefing the CTC, but yeah, it wasn’t much.”

Mycroft took the pizza and the wine over to the couch when Greg indicated it to him. He followed with the wine bottle opener and a sharp knife in case the pizza wasn’t pre-cut.

“I’m sorry I had to cancel tonight,” Greg said halfway through his first slice of amazing pizza. The crust was exactly right. The cheese had a rich taste and the tomatoes were just this side of soft. “This pizza is incredible by the way.”

“I’ll tell my cook, he’ll be delighted,” Mycroft said with a small smile. “And don’t worry, I very much understand how work can get in the way of being social.”

Greg nodded mutely, still trying to get over the fact that Mycroft had a private cook. He probably shouldn’t be so shocked, considering the man’s usual attire and his choice of restaurant.

“So you’re GCHQ?” Greg finally asked, starting on his third slice. He watched as Mycroft carefully took a bite from his own third slice, chewing before he answered.

“I am not,” Mycroft said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “It’s just something I let them believe.”

Greg raised an eyebrow at him. “And the Intelligence Sector doesn’t notice?”

“It helps that I’m really listed as a consultant with the GCHQ,” Mycroft shrugged, a small smile playing around his lips. “But to be honest my role is much less defined.”

“So what do you do day to day?” Greg asked curiously, his pizza forgotten in his hand.

Mycroft took a sip of his wine. “If there is a problem, I consult. If there is an unspecific act of potential terrorism, I investigate. I told you, I see everything and I don’t just work on one thing at the time.”

“So you’re what? The mastermind behind the British government?” Greg asked, only half joking. He took a sip of the, unsurprisingly, good wine.

“My little brother certainly likes to say so,” Mycroft said with a chuckle. “But it really isn’t that big a role.”

Greg snorted, shaking his head as he grabbed another slice of pizza. “So you’re an independent force helping the British government and leading the Security Service and the Secret Intelligence Service on; but it isn’t that big of a role. Sure.”

Mycroft smiled thinly at that. “I have little influence on the fact that they take my employment at the GCHQ as truth.”

Greg leaned back against the couch, the wine in his left hand, his right resting on his stomach. “Tell your cook my compliments. That was probably the best pizza I ever had.”

“I will pass it on,” Mycroft said with a nod, leaning back too. “I really enjoyed it too.”

Greg looked over to Mycroft, tracing the lines on his face and the way the suit clung to his frame. “Would you horribly mind if I told you that you’re quite handsome?” Apparently Greg’s sense of self-preservation did not intend to stay with him today. Pity.

Mycroft startled and looked over to Greg. “I- No, I wouldn’t.”

Greg nodded, taking another sip of his wine. “Good, ‘cause you are. The suits certainly help too.”

“Thank you, Gregory,” Mycroft said, his shoulders relaxing marginally. “If I may say so, you’re quite handsome too.”

Greg snorted. “I don’t think I felt this awkward since high school.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this,” Mycroft said quietly, leaning forward to pour more wine into his glass.

“I think you misunderstood me,” Greg said, leaning forward to deposit his glass on the table and turning to Mycroft. “I feel awkward because I have no idea what to say to a man like you.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, a slight blush spreading on his cheeks. “A man like me?”

“Someone so brilliant, handsome and powerful,” Greg clarified. There was sweat gathering in his palms, and his breath was definitely coming faster. “You’re so far out of my league…”

Mycroft looked down at his hands. “I’ll always be. I won’t pretend otherwise, that would not be fair. But you’re remarkable on your own, Gregory.”

Now it was Greg’s turn to look down at his hands. “I’m pretty average. I don’t think there’s anything remarkable about me.”

Suddenly Mycroft reached out, gently lifting Greg’s chin so he would meet his eyes. “You are far from average. You’re very intelligent, you are very good at your job and most importantly…you’re a good man, Gregory. That in itself already is remarkable.”

Greg snorted, his eyes skittering to the side even though he made no move to remove Mycroft’s hand from his chin. “You’re flattering me.”

Mycroft shrugged. “It is alright if you don’t believe me. You will see it yourself in time, I’m sure.”

“Mycroft,” Greg hesitated. He did not want to destroy this moment, but maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe…

“Speak your mind, Gregory,” Mycroft said quietly, with a small genuine smile.

“May I kiss you?” Greg rushed to get the words out before his courage left him after all. Because in this moment Mycroft looked very much kissable. His lips stained from the red wine they had been drinking, his eyes sparkling with warmth and his hand still on Greg’s jaw.

Mycroft’s eyes widened in surprise and his hand dropped but he nodded mutely. Greg carefully leant forward and caught Mycroft’s lips with his own.

Gently, very gently Greg brushed his lips over Mycroft’s with only a little pressure and the slightest pull on the lower lip. When Greg released him Mycroft’s eyes turned dark with hunger and this time he pulled Greg in.

The second kiss was no less electrifying, pleasure spiking low in Greg’s gut and his hand landing on Mycroft’s neck as if it had a will of its own.

Gentle pressure was replaced by stubble burn and rough nips and Greg felt himself starting grin, pulling Mycroft closer, probably messing up the fine suit.

When they separated again Greg was interrupted by a yawn so deep that his jaw cracked. “Sorry, that was not a commentary on your skills.”

Mycroft smiled a little. “I would hope not. You should be off to bed, Gregory.”

“Stay?” Greg asked quietly. “Of course only if you want to!”

Mycroft smiled sadly. “I wish I could. But I have a meeting in a few hours.”

Greg shrugged. “Alright then.” He started to gather the empty pizza boxes and the wine glasses. As he put down the glasses in the sink he felt two hands settle on his shoulders.

“I’m very sorry, Gregory,” Mycroft assured him. “I would love to stay. Maybe next time?”

Greg looked up at him, hope blooming in his chest. “Next time?”

“Of course,” Mycroft sounded startled. “I am very much looking forward to seeing you again.”

Greg grinned. “Great! I’ll look forward to seeing you again too.”

Mycroft smiled softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Merry Christmas, Gregory.”

“Merry Christmas, Mycroft.”

With a last tentative, hopeful kiss Mycroft left. This time Greg was grinning dopily at the door closing behind the handsome man. Best Christmas present ever.

Whistling under his breath Greg went about cleaning up and when he finally crawled under his blanket Greg was asleep before his head hit the pillow. For the first time since Joanne walked out on him Greg slept well and through the Christmas night.

 


End file.
